The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife

‘Breakfast is ready, sir,’ Mercy announced dispassionately. On what he was paying her she could afford to overlook snippy behaviour. Obviously, whoever he’d been talking to had rattled his cage and she just happened to be on the receiving end of the fallout.

Spectacular dark eyes dropped to her empty hands. ‘I don’t see it.’

Momentarily distracted by the way the morning light touched the gleaming luxuriance of his dark hair and emphasised the heart-stopping planes and hollows of his amazing Latin looks, Mercy could only stare, her soft mouth dropping open until she remembered that rudely gawping wasn’t exactly the on-the-ball behaviour expected of a super-efficient employee.

‘The dining room, sir,’ she put in rapidly, at pains now to project effortless competence to make up for that dismaying lapse, essayed a slight smile, opened the door and stood aside for her boss to precede her.

Only he didn’t.

‘I take it in here,’ was his quelling rejoinder. Then that knock-’em-dead smile had her melting all over as he amended, ‘Sorry, Howard. You weren’t to know that, were you? Knox should have left you precise instructions—’ Then, his smile fading at the speed of light, he reached for his trilling mobile, snatched it up and spoke in a voice like ice daggers. ‘I don’t do patience; you should know that. If you call this number one more time I shall have you prosecuted for harassment.’

Mercy scurried, her face pink. How awful! If he talked to her like he’d spoken to the unfortunate on the other end of the phone she would curl up and die! Or, more likely, ask him who he thought he was talking to and get the sack! He obviously had no inhibitions about bawling out anyone who displeased him. She would have to watch her step and then some or she might find herself and her meagre belongings ejected straight out of the front door.

Finding the largest tray the kitchen had to offer, she loaded it with Andreo’s breakfast things and tottered back to his study. She would have to clear a space on that immense cluttered desk. Really, she thought, out of breath with her exertions as she thrust the study door open with her hip, it would be far more convenient if he ate in the dining room. But it wasn’t her place to tell him so. He paid her wages; he was, she supposed, entitled to call the tune.

He was intent on what he was doing, keying text into a computer housed on a work station at the far end of the room. Mercy placed the loaded tray on the floor while she cleared a space on his desk, hefted it into position and announced briskly, ‘Your breakfast, sir.’

‘So?’ He sounded abstracted, on another planet. Then exasperation crept in. ‘Bring it here, woman.’

Mercy ground her teeth together. Give me strength! was the plea that sprang to her lips, successfully smothered by her almost level, ‘There isn’t enough room on that bench, sir.’

She saw the wide shoulders stiffen beneath the crisp pale blue shirt he was wearing tucked into immaculately tailored narrow fitting dark grey trousers. ‘Not room?’ He turned to glare at her disbelievingly, then got to his feet in one fluid movement, his magnificent eyes landing on a plate of eggs sunny side up, grilled bacon and tomatoes, a rack of toast, butter dish, honey, the teapot and accessories.

Andreo felt his face go blank as he briefly closed his eyes and swallowed the impulse to shout, You’re fired! Knox plainly hadn’t done as he’d instructed and made a list of all his requirements to leave for her successor.

His voice gritty with the determination to be evenhanded, he stated, ‘There are things you should know, Howard. I’m busy and about to get busier. I don’t have time to eat my way through enough to feed a small army. I simply require a cup of strong, unsweetened black coffee—nothing else—on the dot of eight before I leave for my place of work at eight-ten.’ Making a huge production of it, he consulted the wafer-thin platinum watch on his wrist and pointed out drily, ‘It is already eight-fifteen. And I do not need or want a heart attack on a plate. Take it away!’

Mercy drew herself up to her unimpressive full height and shot him a look of mild disapproval. During her odd job days when her mother had been alive, she had often looked after Mrs Fletcher’s two-year-old strong willed son and could recognise the onset of a temper tantrum with the best of them.

Sure of her ground, she pointed out with the breezy firmness tantrums demanded, ‘It is good wholesome food. Bacon and eggs once in a while did no one any harm. Having just black coffee to start the day on—’ she made a tutting noise ‘—won’t do at all. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and while I’m employed to look after you and your home a decent breakfast is what you’ll get. Eat it before it goes cold.’

Then, belatedly reminding herself of her subservient position and her need to hold on to it, she tacked on, ‘Will you be in for a meal this evening, sir?’

And wondered why those dark grey eyes had widened as he simply stared at her for long moments, charged moments that set up a peculiar sensation deep in her tummy, robbing her of breath and turning her face brick-red before he muttered, ‘No, Howard, I won’t.’

Safely tucked away in the kitchen, Mercy gave up her attempts to eat her own toast and marmalade as her ears strained to hear the sound of his departure.

She so hoped she hadn’t blown it. The legendary Andreo Pascali wouldn’t stand for an underling telling him what to do. The trouble was that from the age of sixteen she had become used to running the household as she felt fit, looking after the family’s slim budget, because her mother, poor darling, had gone to pieces after her husband’s death and their consequent removal to the tiny cottage. And when she’d come up to London she’d swiftly been put in charge of her own team of cleaners so she’d grown used to deciding how and when things should be done. And maybe that wouldn’t go down well with an Italian creative genius!

Yet she knew she was right. Her boss must work really hard to make such a success of his agency. He needed a decent breakfast. After all, he employed her to look after him, and that was what she would do.

The day flew by. Heartened by the growing conviction that she wasn’t about to be made unemployed—an inspection of the breakfast tray informed her that Signor Pascali had eaten a slice of toast and one rasher of bacon, which meant that he hadn’t taken her well-meaning lecture too badly—Mercy cleaned windows and polished furniture with gusto, making a mental note to ask him what his former housekeeper had done about ordering provisions and paying for them.

Apart from wine and coffee and a few ready meals languishing in the freezer, the cupboard was bare. She had had to pop out and buy the makings of today’s spurned breakfast, and tomorrow’s, out of her own slender resources. She’d thought her brother was undomesticated but her boss was in a league of his own!

At eight o’clock she called it a day. She was hot, grubby and smelled of floor polish and her feet ached. Popping a frozen meal in the microwave oven and assembling a tray, she promised herself a relaxing hour in front of the television in her own quarters, a hot bath and an early night. Grimacing because she knew Carly would say she’d been born middle-aged, she dropped what she was doing and hurried to answer the summons of the doorbell.

Signor Pascali? Forgotten his door key? She so wished she didn’t look such a complete mess. No time to tidy herself up.

The opened door admitted a cooling river breeze and the blonde bombshell.

‘I’m afraid he’s out,’ Mercy stated, breathing in an overpowering lungful of heady perfume.

‘I know.’ Trisha headed for the stairs. She was wearing a black dress that glittered as she moved. It clung to her magnificent bosom and voluptuous backside. ‘He always stays late on a Tuesday. Brainstorming session, he calls it. I will wait for him in his bedroom. Be a good girl and bring a bottle of wine and two glasses.’

Despite her highly moral upbringing, Mercy wasn’t a prude. People had ‘partners’ and ‘relationships’ instead of marriages. That didn’t mean they didn’t truly love each other. And a male as magnificent as Andreo would automatically choose a partner to match. So why did she sigh as she went to do as Trisha had asked?

Envy?

Utter nonsense!

‘You didn’t say whether you wanted red or white,’ Mercy said brightly minutes later, entering Andreo’s bedroom. ‘So I brought both.’

The blonde was inspecting herself in the full length mirror, turning this way and that as if looking for reassurance. Glancing up after placing the bottles and glasses on the night table that flanked the bed—a heavily carved statement of opulence in the otherwise severely masculine room—Mercy noticed for the first time that the other woman was looking quite peaky underneath all that make-up, her full mouth trembling.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Just open the wine! No, the red,’ she said as Mercy’s hand reached for the white. ‘I need some stiffening.’ Sinking down on to the bed, she kicked off her high heels with edgy force and the hand that took the brimming glass was shaking.

Seeing the blonde sprawled out on the richly embroidered silk covers made Mercy’s stomach roll over sickly but her intention to make a smart exit was stymied by a breathy, ‘Keep me company for ten minutes?’

Regretting her by now cooling supper, because surely hunger pangs alone were responsible for the queasiness that had afflicted her on pairing the blonde with Andreo’s bed, Mercy lowered herself down on the very edge of the mattress and asked bluntly, ‘So what’s wrong?’ because something patently was. Beautiful, self-assured women didn’t seek the company of mere underlings unless they were troubled and couldn’t bear being alone with their problems.

The glass swiftly emptied, Trisha swung her endless legs to the sage green carpet and gave herself a refill. Lifting her magnificent shoulders in a minimal shrug, she answered, ‘Nothing that can’t be sorted. I hope.’

As the ‘I hope’ bit had emerged on a decidedly wistful note, Mercy said bracingly, ‘Think positive. Whenever I’ve had a problem—and, believe me, I’ve had a few—’

Uninterested in Mercy’s problems, past or present, Trisha put in, ‘You might as well know, it’s common knowledge. Andreo and I—’ her voice wobbled ‘—had a falling out. He was on the brink of asking me to marry him when it happened.’ She slanted Mercy a sideways look. ‘Do you know if he’s seeing someone else? If some little harpie’s got her claws into him?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mercy confessed, her ready sympathies aroused. She could understand any woman falling deeply in love with a stunner like the Italian legend and feeling utterly desolate if she thought she’d lost him. ‘But if he’s in love with you and was about to propose, then he’s hardly likely to take up with someone else in a hurry, is he?’ she soothed. ‘It would have been a lovers’ tiff, nothing serious. My friend Carly and her Darren were always having them. And they always kissed and made up. In fact they’re soon to be married. So just hang on to what’s positive—that you’re both madly in love with each other.’

As her heartening speech had no effect other than earning herself a look of incredulous scorn, Mercy, wanting her supper and a well-earned spell of relaxation, got to her feet, adding a generous, ‘You’re so lovely, he’s not going to risk losing you over some little disagreement.’

She had reached the door when Trisha said, visibly brightening, ‘You’re right, of course. So right! And, by the way, make yourself scarce, would you? His mood can be tricky after a Tuesday session. Don’t want to make it worse, do we? No offence, but you’re hardly a sight to make a man glad to be home, are you?’

Was that remark catty or what? Mercy fumed as she clumped down the stairs. Or had the other woman merely been stating the glaringly obvious?

Andreo paid the taxi off and sprinted over the paving blocks, his door key at the ready. At last he had it! The great idea—the idea that would make Coronet Ready Meals walk off the shelves.

Chewing over the new project after a hectic day’s work, none of his team had been enthusiastic. Dreary and boring being the general consensus. Used to projects aimed at the wealthy and glamorous, something as mundane as frozen pies and peas in gloopy gravy was a challenge they didn’t want to rise to. Who could make such dull stuff appear trendy or even remotely glossy, even if it was organic, low fat, low salt and boringly good for you?

‘We’re aiming at a different market,’ he’d snapped. ‘Forget the glitz. We’ve got to pitch good old plain wholesomeness—’

And then he’d had it—just like that! The earnest expression, the frumpy little personage telling him to eat his breakfast like a good little boy! All he had to do was persuade her, soft talk her if absolutely necessary. Of course he could hire a professional, set Make-up to work on her—fat suit, wig, that sort of stuff. But Howard was a natural. Just as she was.

Closing the door behind him, a clumping sound alerted him to the progress of the object of his thoughts descending the stairs. A slashing grin spread over his features as he watched her. Swamping overall, dumpy shape, manic hair, big shoes. Perfect!

Mercy faltered slightly then pressed on. He wasn’t supposed to see her. According to Trisha she wasn’t a sight that would make a man glad to be home, brighten his spirits. But he was in a good mood. He was leaning back against the door, his superb frame relaxed, the smile that made her feel all wobbly blindingly in evidence.